I have this thing, a little quirk or harmless symptom of my undiagnosed OCD. Every time I see 11:11 in my computer or phone clock, I stop for that whole minute and say a prayer. My spirituality is not deep at all, so my prayers consist basically in whatever I want at that moment. “Oh, Lord, please let me get a salary raise”; “God, I wanna have sex with X, Y or Z. Please help me out, Master!” or “Don’t let this weird pain I have in my left ball be cancer, oh Father!” Meaningless things, usually. It’s more adorable than profound, I would say.
Today at 11:11 AM, things took a more important turn. It was that one time of the year where the eleven combination repeats to it’s maximum. Whatever bullshit magic or spirituality there is, whether it’s Angels, Kabbalah or Numerology; it is multiplied. But, who cares, right? The numbers in themselves don’t mean anything. But the meaning me and my ex gave to them are to live forever in me.
According to Numerology, L and I are 11. The Master Number 11. This one, of all the numbers, is the coolest, if you ask me. Intuitive, sensitive and spiritual. Together, we were supposed to change the world. But, as you know, science, horoscopes or some crazy Jewish theory can’t predict the future, nor human behavior. People are flawed. People make mistakes.
L is an extraordinary woman that made very bad decisions, and those decisions challenged me beyond whatever limits I had. I couldn’t forgive her, and I couldn’t overcome the pain her actions and words caused me. I’m as imperfect as they come, way too human to be “the better man.”
Eleven months ago I pushed L away from me. I’ve been wondering, ever since, if I made the right choice. Because if I did, being right feels very wrong. And if I didn’t, feeling wrong is nothing but right. Yet, how can I find out the answer? There’s no possible scenario that doesn’t involve giving up all that I built after that, and risking to suffer and cause pain all over again. Tough call.
Today I found out that 11/11 is Singles’ Day, which renders this column rather ironic. At least it’s Friday. Better to face the randomness of life with some alcohol in your blood than with the sobriety of yet another existential crisis.
Single Eduardo out.